


break the skin 'cause i can't tell where your body ends and mine begins

by forcynics



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Choking, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon wakes up in a coffin.</p><p>(( “You should drink, darling,” Camille says, and starts to lower the glass to him, and he wants, he aches, but he’s also filled with horror, repulsion—He <i>can’t</i> be one of them. He can’t put that glass to his mouth and drink someone’s <i>blood</i>, he can’t be a <i>monster—</i></p><p>He can’t be <i>dead.</i> ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	break the skin 'cause i can't tell where your body ends and mine begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ever_neutral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_neutral/gifts).



> prompt: _harsh are the terms of your sentence_ at the [shadowhunters ficathon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html)
> 
> see the tags for warnings, there's definitely a lot of manipulation in this that could be read as dubious consent

 

 

 

 

Simon wakes up in a coffin.

He doesn’t realize what it is immediately. He opens his eyes and his head is pounding and the first thing he notices is the high, vaulted ceiling above him which means he is definitely not in his bedroom or any other room he would possibly expect to wake up in.

Then he starts to roll over and that’s when he bangs his elbow on a wall and realizes there are walls all around him, neatly trapping him inside some kind of box, with plush velvet lining and silky sheets tangled around his ankles. A box perfectly tailored to his size from head to toe.

He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches himself, but when he opens his eyes again nothing’s changed.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

No, not sick. His stomach is churning, but it’s not sickness, it’s something else. His mouth feels dry and his teeth are sore and when he starts to push himself up to climb out of – wherever he is – his whole body starts to shake.

And then suddenly there’s a cool hand on his arm, firmly pushing him back down, and a silhouette blocking out most of the light. It takes him a second to recognize—

He should have known.

“Camille,” he croaks. It hurts his throat. His throat is burning, and his mouth is so parched, he keeps trying to wet his lips but it just makes it worse. He swallows, over and over, but it doesn’t feel right.

“What did you— Where— Did you kidnap me _again_?”

Camille sighs.

“Oh, Simon.” She strokes his hair back from his face, and he recoils. “You came to _me_ , darling,” she tells him, smiles sickly sweet from above.

As soon as she says it, he remembers going back to the hotel, remembers the visions of Camille over his shoulder in the mirror, remembers everything in his life starting to unravel around him in a way he didn’t fully understand, or didn't want to—

“OK, maybe I did, but clearly that was a bad idea, and you can’t—you can’t just keep me locked up in your hotel forever, I need to get back to Clary and—” He starts to scramble up again.

She laughs, pushes him back down firmly. Simon doesn’t know why she’s laughing, but he also doesn’t think he wants to find out.

“We’re not in the Hotel Dumort.” She raises an eyebrow expectantly, like this should mean something to him. But all Simon can remember is creeping into the hotel and calling out her name and then—fangs, in his neck, _Camille’s_ fangs in his neck, and the violent flash in her eyes the second before she swooped across the room.

“Where are we?” he rasps, but it’s starting to sink in, her eyes and her fangs and all the blood she drained from him and now waking up in a—

He’s shaking all the way down his body. He doesn’t want to hear her say it, but he needs to, he needs someone to finally say it, and he can’t.

Camille drums her fingers along the side of the—box.

“Paris,” she says after a moment, and it’s so startling that Simon stops shaking.

“ _What_?” he chokes out, and she just laughs again, shrugs one thin shoulder.

“Or London. Or Tokyo. Or Dubai. We could be anywhere in the world, Simon, but I don’t think I’ll tell you just yet. It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that we are far, far away from New York and all your little friends.”

It’s too much to believe. This morning—or yesterday—he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but not that long ago—he was a regular student in Brooklyn, and maybe his best friend was caught up in some secret shadow world, but he still had a life all around him, and now he’s supposedly halfway across the globe with a murderous vampire—

“We need to go back,” he insists, voice shaking just a little bit. “I need to go home.”

Camille smiles, and takes his hand in hers with such a firm grip that he doesn’t try to pull away.

“No,” she says simply. “That’s the only thing that does matter, Simon. You don’t _have_ a home, anymore.”

Her words sting more than the pain in his stomach and the burn in his throat and the pounding in his head all combined. Before he can say anything, she pulls her hand away.

“I’ll be back, later, darling. Sleep tight.”

And she slams the lid of the box—the _coffin_ —down over him, trapping him in darkness with the truth he can’t bear to confront.

 

 

 

 

Simon doesn’t know how much time passes in the dark. He feels like he’s burning up, like his body’s trying to turn itself inside out, like every part of him hurts and he just needs, he _needs_ –

He can’t think about what he needs. He can’t admit it just yet, even in the face of everything that’s happened.

He's starting to remember more. There was Camille and her fangs in the Hotel Dumort and then there was darkness all around him, but heavier than the darkness of the coffin. There was weight pushing down on him and he was pulling himself out of the darkness, and then there was cold air on his skin and in his throat, but it didn't feel right, nothing felt right anymore.

It was night time and Simon was covered in dirt and everything was sharper and louder all around him, and there was Camille.

And then, more darkness. And now, darkness again.

Eventually, there’s a crack of light, and then the lid is shoved open and the ceiling comes into bright focus.

And Camille, of course, glowing above him.

He barely notices her, though. The light isn’t the only thing that’s changed.

There’s a smell.

It nearly cripples him, his stomach twisting into knots and his mouth going so painfully dry all at once that it forces a gasp out of him. There’s a sharp pain in his jaw, in his teeth, like nothing in his mouth fits right anymore—

Camille raises a glass above him. It looks like something you’d serve cocktails in, but it’s filled with liquid thick and red and everything that Simon is craving so terrifyingly.

“You should drink, darling,” Camille says, and starts to lower the glass to him, and he wants, he aches, but he’s also filled with horror, repulsion—He _can’t_ be one of them. He can’t put that glass to his mouth and drink someone’s _blood_ , he can’t be a _monster_ —

He can’t be _dead_.

“No!” He tries to cry out, but his voice just sounds weak, closer to a whimper. He curls up on his side, faces away from her, shuddering violently. The smell of the bloody is so heavy it’s almost like it’s in his mouth anyway, like it would be so easy, and feel so good, to just—

“Get away from me,” he hisses.

Camille laughs behind him, a light, tinkling sound.

“You can’t hide from what you are, Simon. There’s no going back.” She pauses, and he can hear the swish of the blood in the glass, he can hear the rustle of her dress as she moves her hand away from the coffin, and he can hear the gulp as she drinks.

His throat is on fire.

Camille swallows, and he can hear that tiny noise too.

“But if you insist on being stubborn,” she says finally, with a long-suffering sigh.

She closes the lid of the coffin, but this time Simon welcomes the darkness and the walls trapping him inside.

 

 

 

 

At some point, Simon falls asleep.

When he wakes up, the coffin is open above him. He sits up slowly, and gets a look at the room for the first time. The floors are white marble, and the walls are adorned with paintings that look old and decadent enough they should be hanging up on the walls of a gallery.

Camille isn’t here.

Simon is so hungry.

His limbs feel weak and useless as he drags himself up out of the coffin. It’s on top of some kind of marble ledge, and he stumbles when he drops down to the floor, but he stays on his feet.

He should figure out where he is, or find an exit, anything like that—but then he smells it.

Simon nearly doubles over when he picks up the scent of blood wafting down the hallway, and then he’s moving so quickly, quicker than he should be able to move, the hall blurring around him until he comes to a stop in a new room, with the same marble floors, but no coffins, only a deep red velvet couch and a small coffee table.

Camille’s perched on the couch, like she was waiting for him. Her lips curl dangerously.

There’s a champagne flute on the table in front of her, filled halfway with thick, scarlet blood, the sight of which makes Simon’s stomach pang and his throat dry and his head go so dizzy with want that he has to clench his fists.

Camille’s got one hand draped over the back of the couch where she lounges, the other playing with the rim of the glass, the tip of her nail circling it over and over and over and _mesmerizing _.__

“Aren’t you hungry, Simon?” she asks, head tilted, voice smooth like a cat’s purr. With only the tip of her pinky nail, she pushes the glass just a few inches closer to him.

Simon is starving. Simon has no words for this kind of hunger, not only in the pit of his stomach, but in every cell in his body, every hair standing on end as soon as he smelled the blood.

“No.” He almost chokes on the lie.

Camille grins wide and wicked, and closes her hand around the glass.

“You really shouldn’t lie to me, Simon,” she pouts, and she manages to sound sincerely offended, but her glittering eyes give away her amusement.

Before Simon can say anything else, she downs the glass.

His mouth parts, and a sound escapes him, and he hates it, hates the way his entire body jolts forward as he watches all the blood disappear down her slim throat.

Camille sighs, a sound so satisfied it makes his skin crawl. She puts the empty glass down on the table.

“All you had to do was admit what you want,” she chides. “We both _know_ you want it. But I do want to hear it from that pretty mouth of yours.”

Camille’s mouth is scarlet red and wet, lips smeared messily with blood. A single drop drips down her chin, and Simon can’t stop himself from staring, following its path. Camille grins, mouth open just enough that he can see her teeth are stained red too, see the wet of her tongue.

He moves before he realizes he’s decided to. He knocks the table aside, sinks into the couch beside Camille, and in the same motion grabs her neck and licks the blood from her wet, red mouth.

She moans, and suddenly there are nails sharp as claws digging into him, one hand on his thigh and the other around the back of his neck. Simon has no sense for anything except the taste of the warm blood he licks out her mouth, tongue scraping over her fangs, his whole body shuddering.

He drinks all the spills of blood he can, and he doesn’t notice when it’s gone – it’s still just her mouth open to his and her teeth biting his lip, his own blood between them, not the same satisfaction but still the tang of rust and still her lips kissing him and still her body cold and hard, like a sculpture of an ancient goddess, beneath him.

Her nails scrape up the back of his neck, along his scalp, and then she fists her hand tight in his hair and uses it to yank his head back slowly. Her fangs drag against his lower lip as she pulls him away from her, soft slices that spill fresh blood between them, little droplets down Simon’s chin.

She doesn’t ease her grip on his hair, holds him in place firmly and smiles, licks her lips slowly to clean any trace of his blood.

“I never thought you’d be so _forward_ ,” she finally croons, when every little drop of blood is gone. Simon’s throat is still dry, hunger still unsatisfied, and he’s trembling.

Camille releases her iron grip on his hair suddenly, but grabs his throat just as quick, holds it just as tightly. If he were still human, it would bruise, and he would choke and sputter. If he were still human, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, but he doesn’t have to now.

He’s not human. He’s the same as her.

With her thin fingers tight on his throat, Camille shoves him backward hard, against the arm of the couch. She lowers herself over him, moving so fluidly and quickly it would be impossible to mistake her for anything other than what she is.

She raises her free hand and snaps her fingers once, loud.

Almost instantly, there’s a blur of movement from the corner of Simon’s eye and then another vampire is standing beside the couch, and holding—Simon inhales sharply, and he jerks, his whole body arching upward as the scent of blood hits him from the plastic bag in this new vampire’s hand.

Camille just shoves him down harder into the couch, nails digging into his throat.

“Now, now, Simon,” she scolds. “I told you what needs to happen, didn’t I? You can have whatever you want, you just need to say it.”

Camille’s eyes are dark and hard, and her grip on his neck tightens even more. He can barely get the words out when he gives up.

“I—want it,” he chokes.

Camille relaxes her grip by a fraction, stops digging her nails in.

“What do you want, Simon?” she insists.

“The—” his mouth is so dry, his throat is so sore, and he can’t even look at her, can’t look at whoever this other vampire is, can only look at the hospital plastic that contains everything he wants.

“—blood,” he finishes. Coughs once. “Want—blood.”

Camille smiles. Her lips are still stained redder than they should be.

“And why do you want blood?”

She’s going to make him say it, and there will be no going back. He wants to correct her, correct himself—he doesn’t want the blood at all, he _needs_ it. He never wanted any of this.

But that’s not what Camille wants to hear, and it’s Camille with the choking grip on his throat and Camille who controls whether Simon gets what his body is craving so badly he can barely think or if he ends up back in that coffin.

“Because,” he spits out. “Because I’m a vampire.”

 

 

 

 

The other vampire – Simon never learns his name, whoever he is – disappears just as quickly as he arrived, once Camille takes the blood bag from him.

Simon’s stomach is clenched tight and his mouth parts instinctively, as if inhaling more of the scent will do anything to satiate the hunger.

Camille smirks, and then she finally releases his throat and tosses the bag at his chest.

“Drink up, darling,” she coos, but Simon isn’t listening, Simon is grabbing the bag and bringing it to his mouth, tearing into it with fangs, his very own vampire fangs. They slash through the plastic, and when the first gush of blood spills over into his mouth he groans at the taste, sweet and sharp and the only thing that matters.

His teeth tear more widely into the bag, and some of it splashes down his chin, his neck, dripping down his chest underneath his shirt.

Camille makes a noise almost like a growl, so low it barely registers, and then she’s leaning down over him, hands pressing hard into his chest and pressing him back down against the arm of the couch. 

Her mouth goes to his neck and she licks at the blood that’s dripped down, with cold lips and a cold tongue and teeth that scrape and make him shiver. 

Simon’s clenching the bag tight in his fists, wringing every last drop from it, gulping and gulping and gulping, but it’s not enough, nothing could ever be enough.

Camille twists her fingers into the collar of his shirt and rips a tear down the front of it, and then she’s lapping at the blood that trickled underneath. She licks it all clean, and then goes back to his neck, and this time she sinks her fangs in deep and proper.

Simon jerks once and violently. His eyes are closed and he’s still trying to wring every last drop from the blood bag, every precious drop that feels so warm as it slides down his throat.

When Camille lifts her head, her mouth is stained with his blood, gasping open but curved in a smile. Her fangs are pearly and gleaming in the light, and she rips the empty bag out of his hands and tosses it to the floor.

Simon’s still hungry, wants to demand more, more, _more_ , but then Camille’s mouth is on his, and the taste of his own blood, again, is not enough, but it’s something, and so is the weight of her body straddling him, and so is the grip of her hands on his shoulders, pinning him down.

Kissing Camille isn’t the same as drinking blood, but it warms something similar in the back of Simon’s throat. He clings to her now that the blood bag has been torn away, tangling his hands in her hair and pulling her down harder against him. Her teeth tear at his mouth, and a soft laugh slips out of her.

Simon slides a hand down her back, digs his nails in against the base of her spine. She arches, all the long, lovely lines of her, and he untangles his other hand from her hair, grips hard under her thigh. Camille strokes her nails down his cheek, bites down harder on his lower lip, tugging at it briefly when she pulls away.

“Welcome to your new life, Simon,” she whispers, with that smirk on her lips.

And that word – _life_ – it jolts something in his chest, because this isn’t life at all. He had a life, in Brooklyn, and now he doesn’t know where in the world he is, but he knows that’s he dead, and he knows that she killed him.

But what else does he have left?

Camille tugs his jeans halfway down his legs, moving so quickly – he didn’t even notice her unzipping them – and when he reaches for her again, pulls her bloody mouth back down to his, she sinks down onto him, and Simon gasps into her mouth and everything tastes like blood and there is nothing else.

She’s still wearing her underwear, hastily pulled aside, probably torn right through, but the lace scratches against him as she rides up and down, slow and hard, and a shudder ripples up Simon’s spine. He clenches one hand in her hair and slides the other down her chest, cups her breast through the silky fabric of her red dress.

Camille pulls her mouth away from his, licks once at a drop of blood on his upper lip, then trails her fangs along the curve of his jawline. She’s still moving slowly in his lap, but harder, harder, harder, and then her mouth finds that sweet spot on his neck, teeth scraping over where she’s already bitten him and breaking through the skin again. 

It’s a heady feeling this time – he’s so aware of every pulse of blood that slips out of him, so aware of every greedy suckle she makes at his neck, so aware of every time she clenches around him. 

He tips his head back against the arm of the couch, gasps for breaths he doesn’t need anymore, and lets his hands settle at Camille’s hips, urging her on, needing something faster, needing this to _go_ somewhere, soon, quick—

They have all the time in the world.

The thought hits him, something hysterical and delirious bubbling up in his head when he realizes it. What’s the point of rushing anything when he’s never going to die? When he already died and apparently this is what comes next?

Camille lifts her head from his neck, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face, her eyes fluttering closed, eyelashes dark on her pale cheeks. She arches her neck and lets the blood from her mouth, from his body, drip down on Simon.

He takes it for an invitation, pulls her down by the neck and sinks his teeth into her throat the same way she did to him. Camille moans, and her body tenses, then he feels her shiver around him, in his arms, over him, everywhere.

He drinks from her, and it’s not the same as drinking human blood, but it’s different from his own. It’s warm in his mouth but cold in his stomach, doesn’t settle the craving.

But when he pulls his fangs back, Camille starts moving faster, and she pushes him back down, hand settling on his throat again. Simon doesn’t need to breathe, but she grips him so tightly he doesn’t think he could even talk if he wanted to. He doesn’t know what he would say anyway.

His fangs ache for more blood, real blood, but his head is dizzy and Camille is gasping, and he feels her body snap tense, feels the shock of it through her, and it’s more than enough to distract him, pull him straight to the moment. 

She’s pressing on his throat so hard, her hand bloody from the mess of it, and Simon’s mouth opens, inhaling and inhaling and getting just the barest taste of human blood still on the air beneath the rest of his blood and hers, and then he’s snapping his hips up into Camille, and only when he comes, trying to gasp and choking on it, does she release the pressure on his neck.

Camille pulls herself off him slowly, moving in that quick and fluid way again, and lounging back against the opposite end of the couch. Her hair is tangled over her shoulders, and the neck of her dress is pulled all wrong, and she smiles at him and licks her bloody lips. Simon doesn’t even know whose blood it is anymore.

“Do you still want to go home, Simon?” she finally asks, her voice breathy and amused but her eyes narrowed. “Or have you realized how much you need me?”

Simon remembers her words from earlier. _You don’t have a home anymore._ He had a home when he was human, but now he's not. He’s a vampire, and he barely has any idea what that really means, but by now he gets that he can’t exactly just waltz back into the house he grew up in.

Camille raises one hand in a slow, graceful motion, fingers poised to snap and summon whoever else is waiting on her beck and call.

Simon’s mouth goes dry instantly and his fangs slip out.

Camille smiles, waiting, and Simon gives her the answer she wants, the only answer he has.

“I need you.”

 

 

 

 

Camille snaps her fingers.

 

 

 

 


End file.
